


Side Effects

by LuciferIsSatan



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Genetic Bonding, M/M, Mild Gore, Multiple Personalities, Pheromones, Psychological Trauma, Resident Evil 5, Resident Evil: STARS, Unconventional Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-02-09 17:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12893283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: Side Effects:Any effect of a drug, chemical, or other medicine that is in addition to its intended effect, especially an effect that is harmful or unpleasant. - any accompanying or consequential and usually detrimental effect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, originally this was posted in 2013 and has been abandoned for a very lengthy amount of time. After considering deletion, I decided to give it a chance again. This is a heavily edited and revised version to the original (which will eventually be deleted) but after getting such an explosion of old readers who wished to keep this, I didn't have the heart anymore to get rid of it. This is dedicated to those very specific readers, and I hope this lives up to the love you had to the original. Thank you all so much for your support, and thank you so much for being with me all these years.
> 
> Orignal Summary: _Wesker had been handling the T-Virus so well, until something happens he can't control, a vapor so small that it can't be seen, nor explained. The target of all this pain, directed to a certain BSAA Member who doesn't know when to stop fighting. Like Wolf's to Rabbits, thing's change, It's best to leave with no questions asked, I'm afraid._

"They've come to kill you." Shrill and light, her voice a windchime that dragged like a rope that hung from his neck.

The snap of his gun loud in contrast to the silence. Excella Gionne walked carefully around the man, her steps displacing the layer of dust that's accumulated over the years from lack of use, clicking in time to her breaths. She seemed to want more out of this conversation than she was getting; a reaction, perhaps, maybe comfort, but no. This creature didn't give comfort, didn't understand simple things such as love or affection, and if he did, it was an unutilized factor of his character; and right now, he was cold. His face was stiff as if he hadn't noticed she had said anything at all, his shoulders dangerously straight and fingers carefully running over the barrel of his weapon; a useless thing, she always thought. Someone as dangerous as this man didn't need something as tame.

Pursuing her lips, she tried again, "Do I sense concern?"

He could never be baited. Nothing she ever seemed to try roused him, never illicted any sort of raw response she craved. He was stone where she was soil, unmoving where she was pliant; and even with this operation in its final forms, she didn't feel as if she was getting enough. She'd never voice her thoughts, second as they were, a little bit out of fear, but mostly out of obligation.

 _Obligation_ , she thought later, quiet and horrible. Cold and unyielding as her skin lay dying as the virus rushes its terrible course through her body, tearing and causing her skin to grow blubbery and weak. _Unfeeling_ , a scream ripped through her throat, her lungs crushed under the weight, alive as her heart connected into dozens of corpses that flung herself into the mercy of those she ruined.

Yet that was the future and this was the now, and Albert seemed more than willing to face what she was certain could be his peril.

All creatures with the capacity to live, all have the capacity to die. 

All things that hate, can love, even if what they love is only themselves.

Albert Wesker was waiting, she sensed. Waiting, uncaring, and patient. He doesn't think he can lose, and although she admires such determination, she's seen enough to know that nobody is invincible, though some small part of her, the little girl in her, wishes that perhaps this battle is one they can accomplish. She's already invested so much into this man, that a little hope may see them through.

 _Stupid._ The creature inside her screams when the injection she took ran sour.

Albert gave her a look, the first acknowledgment he's gifted her for the longest while, and something in her chest skips. This is a scene, she knows, because they can hear gunshots not very far away, and she supposes that his needs for trivial theatrics is the only thing connecting him to humanity anymore. He has nothing to say to her as she makes her way down to what she supposes is the stage, a wide arena just perfect enough to get his point across. To prove some silly folly he's been silently mulling over for many years.

Excella wishes she had questioned him more, but his silence proved any of her ventures fruitless. She was never sure if she admired him or perhaps loved him, but at the end of it all, she supposed it didn't matter. She was a powerful businesswoman, that had foolishly hoped she would be a powerful creature too, but later ventures and somehow quietly knew it would never be. She was hopeful, not stupid, but played the game like the pawn she knew she was on his intricate game of chess. Silly, she realized, as she felt herself dying, that she thought herself the Queen instead of the Rook he saw her as. Useful to a point, but not vital.

The next few moments happened so fast.

The entryway had been kicked open; Excella would be lying had she said it hadn't startled her, despite expecting the brashness of the two thorns that had been stabbing her nerves relentlessly. The woman, Sheva she believes, had her gun directed towards her head. There was so much fury resting so openly in her face that Excella almost lost herself in it; seemed foolish to get caught up in something as simple as emotion, but her body cried for it.

Mockingly, she clapped her hands.

"Bravo." Excella just _dripped_ in sarcasm, her smirk a nasty copy of a smile.

Then came the clunky companion of hers, big and towering with the face of a true jarhead. The army poster boy, the little recruit Albert had told her _so_ much about. He moved in unison with Sheva, years of training in his composure, and that sense of comradery in the way he stood made her feel oddly sick.

"Damn it, _where's Jill_!?" Chris cried out like a broken record, so desperate, so caring; so human.

"Hmph, Jill?" Excella felt as if she were reading off a script; _careful, mindful, watch your tongue_. "Maybe I'll tell you, maybe I won't." 

Her breath counted in parts of threes, _ready, aim - fire_. A flurry of theatrical motion sprung into the air; all timed perfectly, all in sync. Her companion effortless and the effect was instant, causing the desired confusion and cared for chaos, all orchestrated, all precise. The companion landed perfectly by Excella's side, posture ridged.

"Stop playing around!" Redfield cried out, gaining back his footing, "we want some answers!"

"You haven't changed." _Here's the moment,_ Excella could feel the tension shift near instantaneously, the air growing thick enough to cut and spread like butter.

Excella watched some impossible mix of emotions dance behind that rugged face. There was resentment, shock, fear - though, she couldn't help but wonder if she imagined it, if it was the lights playing tricks on her or if she was so blindsided by the rush she felt at the sight, but she could have sworn that in those layers of surprise, there was age-old hurt buried in his eyes, the word _betrayal_ was thick in her throat but no words would ever come out.

" _Wesker!_ " It would have seemed almost comical if Chris didn't wear his emotions so openly on his sleeve; so easy to read. Excella could understand why Albert wanted to do something grandeur; maybe this was how he felt things, she wondered, vicariously through others. Maybe he found it addictive, maybe he drank up what he could see, maybe he missed being raw and primal and having no control of his person. Maybe she was overthinking. "You _are_ alive!"

"This is Wesker?" Sheva seemed to grow increasingly weary the closer Albert stepped.

"We last met at the Spencer estate, wasn't it?" Wesker showed no weakness as he walked further from the stairs to the B.S.A.A members, seemingly unfazed. "Well, isn't this just one big _family_ reunion."

The plot thickened; Jill was revealed, and through the distraction Excella made her escape. _Albert will handle them_ , she thought, and there came back that hope again. Pesky, simple, human. Albert never struggled with such a thing; determination is a form of hope, she supposed, but death was a form of certainty. She was certain, as she was always certain, that she was going to die; the moment the virus stung her, that split moment after the prick of the needle, she knew she shouldn't have. Albert knew it wouldn't work, and that's when she realized she wasn't sure whether or not she was too human for him, or not human enough.

Rook disguised as a Queen; just as this creature was disguised as a person.

" _Seven Minutes. Seven Minutes is all the time I have to play with you._ "

Albert Wesker is not human. Nothing about him pretended to be. He prowled and existed as a being of Other, like a cave with no discernable depth, and a living thing with no tangible origin. He was mytho's incarnate, young but ancient in his bearing where it was impossible to tell whether he stemmed from the past or something alternate. He was alive, but only technically.

Albert Wesker _had been_ human.

A long time ago, he wasn't this. Poor decisions and a calculated fate took that from him. He was a former US Army officer, a biotech specialist, a renowned scientist --but he was also a killer, a creature, a double agent and a vile thing wearing skin. He left nothing but death in his wake, and today would be no different than tomorrow

Then...- then there was Chris.

Hard headed, loyal little Chris.

Wesker's little prodigy soldier. Honest, kind, asking all the right questions even at the worst of times. S.T.A.R.S Pointman, and team's goofball, back in the days where Albert would allow himself to laugh. Those late nights long ago, questioning whether or not he could lead his team to their deaths, followed by the countless hours where he would shut down such intrusive thoughts, because he understood why he was even doing it in the first place. All the people that had to be assigned, the careful comments, and the hours mulling over fakes documents in order to assure the best line prepared for Umbrellas worst and to watch as they inevitably failed. Destroying his team, his life, and his home back in Raccoon City.

To his little one bedroom apartment in the middle of the city, his office and desk back in the old police station that's both been turned to rubble by now. He can remember everything; to Jill's soft teasing, Barrys obnoxious jokes and every misfire Joseph made. He use to wish he cared that so many of them were dead. Enrico, Kenneth, Brad, Forest, Edward - he realized that caring was pointless. Caring was for those destined to die, as they let themselves be blinded by things that weighed them down. The stink of survival, of loving, of hope -- he dreaded the plague of feelings he was born into, of shutting it down frequently as to never get too out of hand.

To care was a weakness, and Albert would never be weak, again.

Redfield was, admittedly, the most difficult to turn against. Albert never knew what love looked like directed his way, but he knew the moment it turned into the look of retched betrayal, feeling caught off guard at the sight of it.

Not that he has as many difficulties with such a thing now.

Redfield's admirable determination turned into a bane, and soon a disaster.

" _Don't you two ever tire of failing in your mission? - You've_ really _become quite an inconvenience for me._ " His old partner, William Birkins, use to tell him that his accent came out thicker when he was feeling particularly dire.

Killing them should have been easy.

It wasn't.

Wesker couldn't get the edge on them, they were too aware, too ready, _waiting_ on something but he was running out of the patience to deal with them. It wasn't until the needle in his neck that jerked him into a state of distorted reality; the first thing he felt was pure unadulterated _fury_ fitting in his core like a well fitted coat. It hit him with a scream that tore through his body with a surprising intensity that he almost didn't recognize it; fear and confusion breathed into him as he dropped to his knee's, but the dull ache of certainty was a constant -- the flurry of events passed with such an effective ease and he was gone in moments towards the plane.

 _Self-preservation_ came in a jolt and the sudden tightness in his chest disoriented the creature that tried to force it out.

Wesker could feel his whole body crying out; his shoulders shuddered in violent spasms that he was just barely controlling. His stomach convulsed and twisted, his throat tightening like a vice and he couldn't slam down his iron control to stop it. Heat rose into his cheeks, coughing hard with his body doubled over against the floor, blood falling from his lips, trembling as he struggled for air. The T-Virus surged and rushed violently inside of him, fighting against itself and weakening the creature, leaving the person who all but wished it would stop.

For a moment, a very long and painful moment, Wesker felt spayed and.. _whole_ in a horrible way he couldn't rationalize. He could hear the heaving thudding of footsteps approaching, but only a single pair; it didn't take much to deduce who was able to make it on the plane and who had to be left behind. His vision swam when he tried to look up, anger pulsing and the feeling was both so foreign and uncomfortable and yet so familiar he couldn't stop shaking.

Looking up was a mistake, pain shooting through his spine; contorting his face in anguish as he cried out. It felt like something living was crawing through the bone, busting and twisting to claw its way up higher. Tears welled up in his eyes, causing him to choke on the coughs it caused.

"It's _over_ Wesker! There's nobody left to help you!" His voice was _too_ loud, too much. Wesker could feel the words on the tip of his tongue - _I don't need anyone else!_ \- but they got lost in his throat as his body crumbled under the weight of the pain. A cry that sounded something close to a sob burst through his mouth; everything hurt, his equilibrium was off balance and everything was spinning.

Somewhere between each wave of anguish, he realized he was dying.

Redfield seemed to realize this, too.

Wesker tried to get to his feet, but he couldn't. Instead, his back leaned against the coolness of the wall, keeping him somewhat upright, blood seeping from his nose and ears when he raised his head, knocking it back. Redfield was watching him in struck silence, his mouth a grim line but his gun was lowered. He just stood there, watching.

Wesker coughed when he tried to laugh, a mixture of saliva, bile and blood on his chin when he smiled up at the BSAA member. At the STARS pointman; at Chris.

"It seems you're getting exa- exactly what you wished, Chris-" Wesker swallowed thickly, licking his lips, "Christopher."

"You had it long since coming, Wesker." Redfield spat, "It's nothing less than you deserve."

"Never saw you as cruel," Wesker never missed the slight wince at the corner of the eyes of the other, "you were always... always the sympathetic one."

"Cut the bullshit," he snarled, "you never gave a damn about anyone but yourself."

"But you cared," Wesker closed his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth, breath harsh as another wave of pain crashed into him. " _You_ use to watch me with..- with bright eyes and so much admiration it was suffocating." his breath was shuddering, fingers gripping his middle so tightly he was bruising, "You tried to prove yourself on the field because you thought I hated you."

"You're the reason most of my friends were killed," Redfield dismissed, "scum like you don't deserve sympathy."

"I wouldn't want something so pathetic from you." Wesker slammed his fist into the wall, startling the marksmen back, redrawing his weapon. Wesker breathed roughly, forcing himself upward using the crater he created.

Everything after that happened too fast.

Gunshots rang out, motions a blur. Wesker, in a sudden fit, slammed Redfield's wrists above his head as the BSAA sharpshooter lost his footing, back slamming against either a floor or the wall, he couldn't tell, snarling when Wesker snapped a hand to his jaw, forcing it open. Redfield was unclear what happened next, watching in abject horror, eye to eye with Weskers glowing monstrosities, as a black sludge retched out of the tyrant's throat and forced its way into his. Like tar, thick and molten hot, but pulsing as if it were alive. Chris thrashed and jerked but couldn't get leverage, gagging and sputtering but Wesker never lost his grip.

All he felt next was a violent tugging in his stomach, and his world ceased to exist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: _Sorry for the wait!_ I've been working on the outline of this story for a bit, mostly to find out how many chapters I was planning on as to not make this too lengthy, but that's still in the air. Though I'm aiming for just 10 this time around, but we will see! The holidays had been keeping me busy, and now that they're over I'm back to my classes, work, and my DM finally scheduled our upcoming Dnd campaign to continue on Saturday so I'm going to do my best to work on these chapters as much as I can (regardless of all that). Thank you all who commented, I appreciate everything you all had to say and I'm so very thankful for every last one of you! Enjoy!

The space around him was pulsating, quick and reverberating as a heart beat, that caused the air that refused to touch his lips to vibrate. His head was all static, consciousness evading, moving, friction skidding against each laboured breath in tandem as follows; barely existent, but still somehow _alive_.

Redfield woke up the first time, choking on his own spit.

He sputtered with a tight throat, trying to gasp for air and struggling to part his cracked lips. His limbs were impossibly heavy. Torso feeling weighed down by invisible hands, claws that dig and tear into skin as pliable as clay, sinking into his ribcage with coarse palms that pin and bury him into the ground. He couldn't move, couldn't even comprehend the concept of moving anymore, aware he was present but feeling so far away; chest tight and raw, stomach twisting and convulsing with his arms so heavy and hot, feeling as though as he lay his skin may as well melt from his bones and sink into the floor where it might as well fester and rot.

He couldn't think.

Breathing was difficult, choking and unable to open his mouth until something frozen and firm grabbed him by the jaw and tore it apart. Redfield didn't feel pain, just cold discomfort; only when something lukewarm and wet was forced into his mouth did he try and pull away, but only received a hand, a _real_ hand, firmly push against the base of his neck to hold him still; it took all the fight Redfield had in him, not demanding but suggesting to him to simply deflate. It only took his mouth a moment to connect to his brain to realize that it was just water, before settling to calm down and focus on trying to swallow.

Someone was speaking but his ears felt waterlogged. Redfield could hear little else but a faint and constant ringing, hushed, singular murmurs, and something drumming so far away, and found that trying to force his eye lids open was fruitless.

He doesn't know when he fell back asleep.

He doesn't know the difference between morning or night, what day or week it was, everything meshing into tight and blurry memories of pain and tiredness, and a voice so calm he couldn't think to cling to anything else.

He woke up for the last time in a cold sweat.

Redfield coughed and choked, his chin wet and cheeks hot with his vision spinning and seeping white. His head was pounding, biting through the pain he attempted to shake the fever that weighed heavily behind his eyes and was crushing the base of his neck. Raising his hand to run over his face, he found them forcibly bound to..-to something. Redfield tugged again but couldn't even twist his wrist far enough to force the bindings to break, though his strength was sapped, no amount of tugging did much to even loosen what he soon realized were several ropes that were interlaced from his elbow to his forearms, fingers bound in scrap cloth and attached to a set of metal beams that Redfield now realized were attached to a cot; Redfield swallowed his uneasiness, realizing his throat was also deeply sore, feeling like sandpaper when he tried to swallow.

Blinking the bleariness from his sleep crusted eyes, he tried to get a read on his surroundings.

He was in a very small room. It looked like what had once been a storeroom, noting the mostly empty shelves that were screwed to the walls, and the desk at the far end that had old metal boxes rusting atop its surface. He noted the floor was covered in bandages, empty bullet casings and torn apart clothes. A small ice box in the corner, a second cot, and what Redfield could see of a door to the far corner, with a tiny window just above his head. He couldn't force his body to move to try and see out of it, but even with effort it was too high up that he'd need a stool even if he had been standing. Grimy off white walls and concrete floors spotted with unknown stains; Redfield checked himself and found that he was still wearing clothes, though, with dismay, nothing of his own. His pants were a prison looking grey, bleak and scratchy against his legs. Though his shirt was missing entirely, including any socks or shoes he might have had. What he did have, on the other hand, were bandages covering most of his torso including along his left leg where part of the pantleg had been rolled up and pinned from falling loose.

He could still hear ringing, but it seemed much further away now compared to the drumming; it seemed as if the room vibrated with it. He couldn't quite feel it in the sheets under his body, but he could _feel_ it in his pulse; in the way his heart thudded rapidly in his chest, how the blood heated his cheeks and blossomed over what he could see from his scarred chest. It made him ache, feeling as if he's come down with a nasty case of the flu.

Then, gunshots.

Redfield could feel his panic rising as each shot was louder than the last until a door slammed somewhere in the building. He tugged and yanked on his bindings but even in desperation he couldn't get them loose. The ringing and drumming or whatever he had been hearing were now considerably droned and muted compared to the steps; precise, quick in succession and purposeful, heading directly his way.

Redfield didn't have the time to consider pretending he was asleep by the time he heard a sharp _click_ and the door leading into the room was hastily pushed open.

His throat was too dry and his head too numb to react to the sight of Wesker slamming the door behind him and latching it close.

Redfield barely recognized him at first; not wearing his usual leather, Wesker had on a torn looking jean jacket that looked as if he tore it off of a corpse, faded jeans, and brown combat boots with mud caked along the sides. Nothing looked to be quite his size but fit as best as it could, with uses of belts and buttons and guards along his arms where something inky black and oozing seemed splattered there. He was still wearing his shades, the only thing there that seemed entirely untouched by time and wear, including the backpack Wesker let fall from his shoulder onto the dusty concrete floor, seemingly completely oblivious to his woken company several feet away.

It took very little time to notice the handgun attached to his hip, including the combat knife strapped to his back. Sleeve's rolled up enough to show straps that may have other weapons hidden against his forearms. Wesker seemed both naturally himself and entirely out of place; there was very little time to dwell on how _long_ Redfield had been held hostage here, how long he'd been probably tortured that he can scantly remember where he was, let alone what had happened to him. Why couldn't he remember anything?

Redfield watched vacantly as Wesker pulled packages of what looked to be food out of his bag, rummaging through enough where Redfield could hear glass clinking and metal scraping against cloth. Redfield, unintentionally, as he choked back another cough, startled Wesker out of his busy trance, snapping his head over in attention to where the bound man sat unevenly in his cot.

He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting when this happened.

Wesker rose coolly to his feet, grabbing a few of the packages he gathered along with a few half empty water bottles and placed them along the shelves. He didn't acknowledge Redfield at first, not really anyways, before zipping up his bag and tossing it to rest against the wall, grabbing a small pill bottle, along with some bandages from the outer most drawer of the desk before approaching the cot with careful steps.

"You're awake then," Wesker began, reaching the bedside before tugging slightly at the bandages around Redfield's torso, "and healing. How are you feeling?"

Redfield tried dislodging Weskers hand on him but was too weak to have much effect, opting to refuse to answer. Wesker barely seemed deterred, setting the bandages and pill bottle by the wobbly looking nightstand on Redfield's left, popping open the cap.

"Here, take this. By the look on your face you looked pained, it should help," Wesker carefully grabbed Redfield's jaw, and the soft but firmness of them brought back fuzzy and vague memories of this happening before. He was too weak to resist much, though he did try, shaking his head as hard as he could but Wesker was in full health and mostly seemed mildly inconvenienced at most; "It's Citrezene, it should help with the fever that's had it's grip on you. I'm not trying to poison you." Redfield was deeply unconvinced and tried to spit them out the moment Wesker finally got them in, had he not forced his mouth closed before covering his lips till Chris couldn't stand the taste of them melting in his mouth and bitterly swallowed. The tyrant gave him a pinched look before releasing his jaw, "Do you know who you are? Where you are? What do you remember?"

"Stay the hell away from me," Redfield spat, regretting it immediately as speaking caused him to cough harshly, a sudden bitter taste of copper coated the base of his tongue, and had he been a lesser man he may have gagged. To his surprise and his mild discomfort, Wesker frowned at him, leaving momentarily only to return with a bottle of water, making the quiet request of Redfield to tilt back his head and make this easier for the both of them, to which he refused.

"It's just water, there's no need for you to be difficult." Wesker grabbed Redfield by the jaw, but this time made no effort to force it open, "I tested the water well over a month ago, there's nothing wrong with it."

"A month?" Redfield tried to tear his head away, and to his surprise Wesker relented. It was very, _unlike_ him. "you're lying."

"I have never been wrong in my assessment in reading the passage of time," he deadpanned, "can't imagine why I'd be unable to do so now." 

When Wesker went to reach for Redfield again, he recoiled. Wesker snapped, "Really Christopher, what has gotten into you?"

"Where the hell are we?" Redfield demanded instead of answering, "what did you do to me? _Where's Sheva_?"

Weskers face did something it hasn't done in longer than Chris could honestly remember; Wesker raised his brow. Something in Redfield's head seemed to click and realized that Wesker had actually been responding with his face.

For some strange reason he can't remember the last time he'd seen anything other than cold contempt each time they've clashed since Wesker died in the mansion all those years ago. After the T-Virus, it was as if it had sapped every living human thing Wesker may have had in his life; all shades of humanity, any personality - his sadness, morals, joys, everything he could have ever felt was left drained and in its place was insanity and any sign of who he was- who Chris _thought_ he had been - had been completely erased. It made it easier to hunt him down all these years, made it just another mission against a terrorist, because to Chris he was standing his ground against a monster, not his former STARS Captain. That man has long since passed away, and Redfield had already finished his mourning, if that man had ever really existed at all.

But this; the pinched expression, the frowning, the raised eyebrow - it made him uneasy. It stirred up old memories that he'd wish would stay buried.

"I haven't done anything to you," Wesker said carefully, almost as if he were speaking to a dull child, "In equal measure, I don't know who Sheva is or where she'd be, but presumably she's home or working in Raccoon city, where you likely last left her."

Chris narrowed his eyes, _what?_

Wesker continued without pause, "Likewise, I believe us to be somewhere in the forest, though I've been unable to contact anyone for assistance, as I lost my radio in the crash, and this home was well and truly abandoned when we arrived."

As Wesker spoke, he turned back to walk to the desk sitting against the wall. Setting down his weapons, he pulled the jacket off of him and left it to hang against the edge; "I've been searching for a radio. There's a town a few miles east of here, but all the buildings are empty and the roads have been unearthed by nature. Most of the buildings are rubble, but there's still some salvage for food. Every animal I've encountered have been...-" Wesker paused, finger tapping against the desk surface, "rather inedible, to say the least."

Redfield thought back to what Wesker had told him, back on the plane. His stomach sinking somehow further.

 _BOWs_ rang loud in Redfield's ears when they heard a distant screech, seeming inches close but miles away, Wesker turned to stare at him with his mouth pressed in a grim line.

Something cold gripped Chris's heart, twisting his stomach in knots.

"Why are you doing this?" Redfields voice was quieter than he wanted it to be, but his blood was running cold and his skin felt lifeless. Thousands had to be dead; thousands had to have been growing sicker and sicker until their bodies couldn't take it anymore. How long did the virus take to decimate those as it was just airbourne? How many counts of bodies piled up in the street because too many were dying all at once? How many turned?

Chris had horrible flashes of Raccoon City, of Rockfort Island, of Caucasus and the Spencer Estate; of every small village he had to endure, of his partners falling and friends dying; of seeing the horrors of what Umbrella left behind; he couldn't do it anymore. After Africa, believing in Jills demise, all the kidnappings and death and experiments and it kept and continued to pile up until eventually - he won.

Wesker won.

A month.

A month was more than enough for Uroboros to ruin any life that very well remains; he saw what it did to Irving, to Excella - it was too much to handle for the BSAA and it would have been too much for the every day civilian that it would have easily overcome. Nobody would be able to bond with Uroboros, no one was meant to. A genocidal genealogical rage would just wipe out every living thing and turn it into something terrible if it doesn't just die first.

No, Wesker planned to be the only one left.

It just - it just made everything Wesker was saying all the more confusing. Why was he holding him hostage then? Instead of just leaving him out to die, or simply kill him himself?Why keep him alive for a month? Why pretend?

Wesker just... he just _looked_ at him. All calm, and confused, and acting as if he truly didn't understand. It made Redfield so violently sick, so furious he wished so desperately he had the strength to tear through his bindings and do the world one last favour; seek revenge and give the world the justice it deserved. What it deserved a long long time ago but he _failed_ to complete his mission and they're all dead and dying now because he couldn't stop him.

"Are you referring to your bindings? Or the medication?" Wesker asked simply, and _god_ the pain in Chris's chest flared at the sound of it, shame filling his cheeks at the feeling. "Your fever made you violent," Wesker began with a frown, "and it was the only way to ensure you didn't sleep walk, or attack me again."

"It's nothing less than scum like you deserve," Redfield spat, watching Weskers face contort in frustration.

"Fever or not I _will not_ tolerate insubordination. I understand you're, _unwell_ and confused, but I am still your superior officer."

"What the _hell_ are you talking about!?" Redfield finally snapped, tugging painfully on his bindings, "you're delusional!"

"I'm of sound mind, though it certainly seems the crash has effected you worse than I imagined."

"Yeah, the plane _you_ had shot out of the air-"

"There was no plane," Wesker spoke coldly, "we were in a helicopter, and we were _not_ shot down."

"Helicopter?" Redfield interrupted, sneering, "we were in a plane, with missiles filled with the _Uroboros Virus_ that _you_ created to justify your crazy God complex-"

"That's enough-"

"- because you wanted to create some New World where everyone's _dead_ -" his throat constricted, "You filthy _fucking terrorist-_

" _Christopher!_ "

 _That tone again_ , what was with that horribly familiar voice? It sunk it's terrible teeth into the back of his head and refused to let go. He could see his old desk, and Jill's flushed laughing face, and see Barry shooting rubber bands across the office floor. Old drills still jammed in the back of his mind, back when all there was in the world were drug raids and kidnappings, where he use to be so uninterested in his paperwork it'd lay untouched for days until his Captain came by, often smacking the back of his head with whatever he would be holding at the time, which were often folders. He could see the faces Forest would shoot him every time it happened, stifling choked laughs behind his fist.

Redfield couldn't properly see them, but it was understood that Wesker had his eyes narrowed at him, brows furrowed and mouth tight. His shoulders and back were both impossibly straight, tension heaping off of him in waves, and it only made Redfield wonder why Wesker doesn't just _kill him_.

"Redfield," Wesker rolled the name off his tongue like venom, "you're delusional, you've been in and out of consciousness since this accident, and you've been saying strange incomprehensible mumbling in your sleep. Whatever you've been dreaming about is just that, _a dream_. I have not killed anyone, nor am I responsible for - whatever it is you seem to think I did.

You have been in a horrible fever since I recovered you from the crater, over a month ago. Although abnormally large, it was the crash site of our _Helicopter_ -" Wesker emphasized, "although it is unclear to me if it was due to engine failure or Barry's incompetence. We landed in the middle of the forest, debris was everywhere but the location of what was left of our aircraft is currently unknown, as is the whereabouts of the rest of Alpha team. I found you, mostly intact, and I dragged you into the closest faucet of safety I found. The crash site is well over a mile from here, and I imagine we're just over a hundred miles from Raccoon City."

"In case you've forgotten, which is seems you must have landed on your head, that we were on our way to the mansion with reports of a suspected Satanic cult who would consume massive quantities of narcotics in the forest, where they were reportedly killing and eating civilians. Which I can now verify is a troublesome issue we've been having while you've recovered, as I found that the issue of the supposed cult is not the case. As it stands, you were horribly ill and I could not risk leaving you on your own, which is why I haven't been able to entirely say where we are, or which direction the city lies, as leaving you be stood the chance of your death or even mine, as I could not very well bring you along."

Wesker paused, before continuing, "the forest in infested with diseased animals, though it's not something I've ever seen before."

Redfield said nothing for a very long time. Chewing on the inside of his cheek as he stared at Wesker very deliberately.

 _He's lying_ was the very obvious answer, as this Wesker had the clear age of someone well past the Years he had been during STARS, though Wesker did age very gracefully. His cheeks were still more sunken than they had been all those years ago, and in the blond there were little lines of silver. The main question Redfield wanted to know was _why_ Wesker felt the need to lie, and so outlandishly as it were. Even when he was high on power in destroying Africa with his experiments, he was at least competent enough not to bother with boring theatrics of covering it up.

No. Wesker was too proud of his abominations to ever feel the need to pretend it wasn't his doing.

Nothing made sense.

"Must have been strange waking up in different clothes," Redfield deadpanned, "because it's been many years since I wore my old STARS uniform."

Wesker seemed unbothered, shaking his head as if Chris was being deliberately thick, "you'll be pleased to know I woke up bare. As were you, when I found you."

Redfield shook his head, "why are you bothering with all this? Is this some way to manipulate me into trusting you? Pretending nothing happened in Africa? The Spencer Estate? Raccoon City? Of what you did to Jill, or what you've put me through after STARS? You're just like-"

Chris couldn't finish, as a hand snapped to his hair and yanked his head down against the cot, his neck at a painful angle. Wesker was impossibly, close, and, notably, pale. Chris stared defiantly down at Weskers face, which bore a coldness Chris understood.

Wesker spoke slowly, voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "How do you know that name?"

Redfield shot him a look, "who? Jill?"

"Don't play coy," he spoke carefully, "you're not really Christopher, are you?"

"What the hell are you talking about now-"

"Smart, possibly a mimic, though a poor one at that as Christopher isn't as freakishly large as you made him out to be. Or so old, though I'm sure you merely had a corpse to look off of instead of the real thing." Wesker moved more quickly now, releasing his iron grip as he continued speaking as he turned back to the desk, now opening drawers and pulling out viles. "You know about Spencer, which means that you must be the creature that escaped the labs-"

"You're not making _any_ sense-"

"Who sent you?" Wesker snapped, visibly unnerved, "Was it Birkins? no-" he seemed to be speaking almost to himself, mumbling as he assorted something in front of him, though Redfield noticed a needle. "-it can't be, it's never been tested-"

Redfield had a flash of a thought, unsure, "I'm not the Tyrant, if that's what you're thinking."

The world around them seemed to shut down; all sound was gone, like the moment where waves were to recede before a tsunami came crashing to shore. The second after the doorbell rings, the ghost of a gasp before the surface of the water had broken where face meets air. Like ice, the temperature seemed to drop, where, for a horrifying moment, Redfield was convinced that Wesker would finally end this charade and simply kill him.

What he hadn't expected was for Wesker to turn to look at him, slow as can be, with his face a sheet of white.

It was so quiet for such a long time before, very quietly, Wesker demanded, "where have you heard that name."

It no longer seemed as if this were some game.

Something was seriously wrong.

Redfield was at a loss for words when Wesker moved in on him, his voice dangerously low. "Who else knows about this?"

Redfield seemed even more confused, but before he could respond Wesker is shouting at him. " _Answer me!_ How do you know about the Tyrant!"

"Because it's in the mansion you sent us to _die_ at!" Redfield shouted back, kicking his feet to force himself more upright, ignoring the flash of pain that shot into his back "Stop pretending you have no idea what happened-"

" _What are you?_ " Wesker hissed, snagging Redfield by the throat, "Which department is responsible for you? Is Spencer behind this? How does he know about the tyrant-!?"

" _Both Spencer and the tyrant are dead you ignorant-!_ " Redfield began with a frustrated cry, carelessly throwing his head forward in an attempt to dislodge the others hold, which ended in him slamming it against Weskers head, causing his shades to fly off from the sheer force of it, so far as to even break his nose in the process. Pain shot threw Redfield' neck, nausea unsettling his stomach as the room spun around him. Wesker spit out a curse in a language Redfield didn't understand, hand shooting up to his face which was contorted in terrible quiet rage. Chris watched helplessly as Weskers hand snapped forward and slammed Chris back down in his cot by his neck.

Blood ran down Weskers nose, feeling cold as the dark warm liquid dripped down from Weskers pale skin to Chris's sunkissed collar; the rage and frustration twisted into confused horror as they looked into the others eyes.

Wesker watching in abject fascination as the blood that fell caused the greens in Chris's eyes to turn momentarily to slits, watching his sunken cheeks fill ever so slightly as the blood disappeared into the other's skin.

Chris, feeling his headache lessen, couldn't break his gaze away when he realized he recognized those icy blue eyes staring directly back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _really_ meant it when I meant I wanted to try something different, and I'm _very_ happy with what I came up with and I hope you all will be too. Next chapter will hopefully be posted soon after as to explain what's happening, but!! That will have to wait! Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> Also, ignore all the messy punctuation/grammar mistakes, if anything is really particularly terrible, please let me know. I'm beta reading this myself, and I tend not to pay the best amount of attention to the better details.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also going to be taking a slightly different approach than from the original because I physically cannot stomach non-con to that much of an extent and hopefully, this brings a nice new element to the characters that the very 2-dimensional writing of before, and keeps somewhat true to the intention I had in the original story. (Also?? I love Sheva, I don't know why exactly I killed her in the first story but it was a stupid decision that I'm revoking.) Thank you so much for reading!  
> (All mistakes are mine)


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